Larkin aboot.....

[larkinaboot-blog]

Florence and the Sleeping Tablets

On my 7 ½ hour journey home from Aberystwyth to Pompey I breathed a huge sigh of relief that my week of work there was over. I’ve told you about this client before. She’s the lady who is aggressive and looks in on you in the night, in the style of Kathy Bates in Misery. She is a stroke victim, with undiagnosed dementia and lost her husband 7 months ago.

Well on my return nothing’s changed, only she (lets call her ’Ethel’) has deteriorated. Despite this and the fact that she is undoubtedly a difficult client who can’t or won’t communicate her needs, I can’t help leaving there feeling I’ve failed.

On my last night, in her vest and disposable knickers, she got up after having been in bed for an hour, and almost in a trance, wobbly walked to the kitchen then turned straight back round and into her bedroom. Ethel did this repetitively for 5 minutes. Now this is not unusual behaviour for her, in fact the night before she did this all night through, constantly. This is no exaggeration.

However because of her ‘midnight stalking’ the night before I knew that Ethel must be exhausted and so this time, despite having the door slammed in my face, I chose to enter, rather than take the easy option of going and sitting back down with my book.

Now, in my defence, my usual theory of care is to allow the client ‘independence of choice‘, promoting their sense of worth by letting them make the decisions that they are able to make. Ethel’s choice in this instance, to be alone in her room and stalk to her kitchen whenever she God damn pleases. However I think you’ll agree this behaviour does not suggest someone of completely sound mind and knowing how tired she was, I decided to step in.

So I walked through her slammed door. Earlier on in the day Ethel picked up a glass to throw at me, she has smacked me round the head whilst walking round the back of my chair and her looks probably have killed, (ah that’s what happened to her husband). So I didn’t know what reception I was about to get! What I was actually faced with was an exhausted Ethel slumped down on her bed. Without saying anything I pulled up a chair and sat by her bed.

After a while she gave me her hand to hold. After a bit more she took my hand and kissed it. About half an hour in I said I was going to go and she hit me. I think this meant ‘stay’, so I did. After just short of 2 hours I kissed her on the cheek and said I was going to bed. We had sat in silence the whole time and I really thought she would have fallen asleep by then, but I witnessed her struggle to get her old body comfortable, unable to position herself. I also witnessed her sore eyes flitting open anxiously every few minutes, her troubled brain not letting her tired body rest. It really is just an added cruelty of old age that, at a time when you have all the time to sleep, it becomes more allusive.

That night, she didn’t get up once, until 8am. This was so unusual for her that upon hearing her get up, I text my boyfriend saying “She’s alive!”   Phew!  Well I say that, but the arguments for Euthanasia are making more sense to me by the day, but that’s a whole other blog!

My guilt and dissatisfaction with myself now lies in the possibility that had I not taken the easy option with Ethel for my time there, had I not seen her aggression as a rejection or an excuse to do what I wanted, and seen it more as a cry for help, sympathy and attention, then maybe I could have cared for her better. Perhaps the reason why she wasn’t being very nice to me is because she knew I wasn’t giving the job my best.

Or perhaps the only real reason she slept all the way through that night, rather than my Florence Nightingale impression, was actually the 2 sleeping tablets I managed to get down her neck before going to bed!

[larkinaboot-blog]

Tap dancing on Planet Tantra, pie in hand!

Why is it, do you think, that I can't keep up to this God damn blog? A few suggestions;

1. Nothing remotely exciting has happened in my life, worthy of report.

2. I am miles too head over heels in love, lost on Planet Tantra to attempt    communication with you plebs!

3. I have been focusing my creativity and time towards something that may actually put some money in my account instead of wasting my time writing a ‘blog’ to give you something to read at work, when you really should be earning your pay. Where’s your sense of honour?

4. I have writers block, my creative juices have dried out to make room for other free flowing juices

5. I’ve just had a month long acid trip and have been hanging with my spiritual guardian in lotus, putting shit to rights. I am mother fuckingly enlightened!

6. I have overloaded myself with too many things to do and learn, including yoga, raw food diet, meditation, tap dancing, book to write, money to save, boyfriend to miss, tantric to explore, Christmas to enjoy or endure, and lastly a blog to write. The result being that my tiny, tiny brain cannot cope and everything gets done, half arsed, if at all.

Well done! You got it right. My spiritual guardian’s name is Ferdinand and he is soooooo FIT! Wooooo you should see the girth of his wings. Meaty!

Ha no! No month long acid trip I‘m afraid. Ok let’s see, well to be honest no, nothing that exciting has happened, but that’s never stopped me before. In fact I think if something exciting had been going on I am more likely to be revelling in the midst of real life, rather than sat reporting about it to my virtual community. The most note worthy things to have happened in the last few months are: I have spent my first Christmas away from my family; I’ve given up coffee; We’ve decided that we’re definitely gonna buy a van or go travelling or move to Bristol. Definitely!; I’ve forgotten my best friend’s birthday; And I’ve risked my job - so worth it!

On a very personal level, much more is going on, but you don’t wanna hear about how in love I am, do you?. You don’t want to hear about how my relationship is opening doors in my heart that I didn’t even know existed, let alone were locked shut. You don’t wanna know how terrifying it is to meet the person who makes you see yourself in all your glory and at the same time, all your shortcomings. Nah you don’t want to know any of that. Do you?

Unlike Lennon, Love has not however halted my creative juices, if anything they are more free-flowing as rapids of life-giving energy littered with love particles, literally bulldozes any blockages out of the way, making new pathways and patterns. I suppose you could also put this down to my new hobbies of Yoga, Tantric, Meditation and a raw food diet. Yes its true I am slowly but surely moving towards a much healthier way of life. After having spent the Summer eating a pie a day (no joke), being very unhealthy and looking like an orphan, I am now feeling much more full of life and getting closer to those energy levels that I am desperate to achieve. This is not to say that the pies are completely extinct. I still can’t resist getting one (usually a chunky steak pie) every time I go into Morrison’s and munching it, as I saunter round with my trolley.

So yes the truth of why I haven’t written my blog really is that my tiny, tiny brain cannot cope with all the changes that I am trying to implement. A coping method that works for me in organising my life is making lists. Setting myself tasks to be finished through the day, with the satisfaction of crossing off each item as I go and spuffing myself at the end result of a fully crossed off list, fully does it for me. I have many on-going lists; lists about my lists! If I could drag myself out of bed earlier, I would also get more done, but this is not a skill I have thus mastered, made all the worse now ,without the reward of coffee on the other side. Something’s gonna have to go to make space in the tiny space above my overgrown eyebrows (another job). Maybe that dream of being a tap dancer should be left as just that; a dream!

　

　

　

[larkinaboot-blog]

....in Aberystwyth (must be said in Welsh accent)

Yep, bare-backed on one of the New Forests’ wild ponies I fled the confines of the rustic red brick detached set in 3 acres of land, originally bought for just £3000 by a couple who are deteriorating at a much faster rate than the house. More importantly, I escaped triumphant, having survived 12 days with a woman who made me want to tweeze each individual eye lash out of my eye in the hope that the pain would distract my brain from the continuous echo of her irritating tone of voice. Right until the last hour my patience was being tested when she chastised me for having a conversation with the woman (Maude) who is paying in excess of £1300 a week for the pleasure of staying in her own home and being cared for by us. My sin was that I had been “keeping her talking”, what I was actually doing was forming a connection with my client by taking an interest in one of her hobbies (insects and butterfly watching) thus increasing her confidence and sense of worth. (We were discussing the Grey Squirrels of the Ladybird world; The Harlequin).

Anyway when I left I handed over to a Carer from Nigeria who, when I gave a subtle but tactful warning about the potential problems of working with our colleague, who just happens to be of Indian heritage, she answered “Mmmm I’ve worked with them before, I don’t like them”. Ha good luck to them both! I almost wanted to stick around to witness it. Almost!

Aberystwyth. Its far. It is beautiful. It has a haberdashery called “aber- dashery”. Clever! And has a fish n chip shop with a sign in the window that reads, “you bring it, we’ll batter it (within reason) – 50p”. Within reason; I wonder what people were bringing in; Roast dinner? Curry? Mudcaked wellies? My spell check just changed Wellies to Willies. That’ll be the day when women of Wales are following the age old Celtic tradition of chopping their husbands willies off and taking them down the local chippy to be deep fried. Now that’s a Wales I can really get behind! Back to Aberystwyth, it also doesn’t have a DVD shop but other than this it’s as good a place as any. I have slightly more to say about the lady I am caring for.

Now I’m very mindful of breaking some Data protection law here and finding myself on some Elderly Vulnerable Adults list, banned from hanging around Bingo Halls or Seaside Promenades, but I’ll try and give you some information without incriminating myself. The lady I have the pleasure of caring for this week is a stroke victim and is also going through very recent grief of her husband of 68 years. What she was like before this all happened to her I don’t know, but she is a …. lets say, handful! She is having a tough time of it, which in turn means, I am having a tough time of it. This week I agree with my boyfriend; I don’t get paid enough!

On the first night I was sat next to her whilst she was in bed, holding her hand as she cried. Last night she tried to kick me as I was helping her with her shoes, and after a week I have been hit countless times. She’s pretty damn scary. Not the actual aggression, I reckon if it came to it, I could well have her. But she is menacing. That is the only word for it. If Pinter was the King of Menace, she’s his Queen. She’s got the art nailed. Amongst many of her tactics are, staring me out with her one good eye, squaring up eye to eye, nose to nose, and worst of all, looking into my room through the night, while I’m sleeping. Arrrrrrrrggghhhhhhh! Nightcare on Elm Street!

But it’s not her aggression that stresses me, it’s the reason for it and that's grief. It’s the knowledge that she is in a lot of pain but due to her stroke and Dementia she cannot express this pain and she is confused by it, so she‘s incredibly frustrated. She woke me at 5.45am the other day, looking for her husband. A few weeks ago, the same incident happened and the carer made the mistake of telling her that her husband was dead. Her reaction was as if she had just been told for the first time and she went through the whole grief process again, from the start. Horrific! So the best thing I could do was go along with it and try and reassure her that he was somewhere and we would find him.

After that start, that was a bad day. She’d not eaten for about 48 hours but I realise now that worrying about it was futile, because when she was hungry, she asked me to cook for her.

And this is the thing that I can’t quite figure out with her. Does she need her carer to mother her, sympathise with her, call her “lovey” and basically treat her like a child? Something that only angered my last male client. Or do I leave her to it, stop asking anything of her and wait for her to come to me, like an adult? There’s a fine line between promoting someone’s independence and neglecting their needs.

Yet after a week I am pretty much leaving her to it. Even though she struggles with some speech, she is perfectly able to communicate, and so probably doesn’t appreciate being followed round her own home by some midget wearing pink leg warmers. So I’ve taken the opportunity to relax, read and watch some awesome films, “Singing in the Rain” being one. But without doubt the best thing I have done this week is take myself off to Welsh Hills to watch some Red Kites being fed at a place called Bwlch Nant yr Arian, (incidentally did they ever catch the prankster who nicked all the vowels out of the Welsh language and replace they with Y and W?). It was awesomeness. There was so many of them, they looked like flies buzzing around…for want of a better analogy, shit! About 150 red kites in the sky. I recommend it and this part of the world.

As for my old lady, she’s still in bed which is fine by me. It’s easy when caring for the elderly to make the assumption that you know best; if they say they want to stay in bed then they must be going mad or are unwell. But if one of us said that we wanted to stay in bed, would we dispute it? No we’d say ‘fair play’. How annoying would it be if you did want to stay in bed, especially after living for 90 years and working most of it, having nothing specific to get up for, to have someone come into your bedroom and make you get up? I can tell you that a lot of my elderly life will be spent in bed and if I lost the man I had loved for 68 years, I wouldn’t ever leave it!

　

[larkinaboot-blog]

..... in a secret location in the New Forest

Oh blog oh blog why can I not keep up to you and give you the love you so deserve?

Ok what was I banging on about last time I wrote this?  Whoa back in Bristol, 2 months ago!  I’m even crapper than I thought.  Well at least you can infer from this that I’ve been having fun, too much fun to sit at my laptop writing about it.  And yes that is very true.  What you may also infer is that I am no longer having fun, and therefore am ready to shut out my current environment once again, get lost in this virtual world and vent some of my frustrations out here.  Rather here than in my workplace, ensuring that everyone keeps their heads...literally!  My weapon is my pen, and all that!  Well my qwerty to be precise.

But let me just state for the record that I am very happy.  Up until a week ago I hadn’t worked for three months and it was as good as it sounds.  I lapped up 3 festivals, unearthed new friends, conquered Bath, Devon, Brighton, Glastonbury, Portsmouth and got my head down in a truck in Scotland.  I also slept in Cheddar Gorge, legged it from a security guard at Shambala after sneaking in, lost control of my whole body from hours of laughing at Boomtown Fair (must have been the Sarsaparillas!), had a very memorable night at some services just off the M40 where I was mistaken for a hucker, discovered that the myth that you should sleep the night before an interview to be a complete fallacy, and last but certainly not least, in fact the mostest, I fell in love, with the man of my dreams.  My most fucked-up, dirtiest dreams like, but nevertheless... I found him!

Actually all that talk of my experiences and achievements (ahem excuse me I lasted 3 months without any money and not once going over my overdraft, well my overdrafts overdraft, for me that’s an achievement!) over this wondrous time has put me in a much better mood; maybe I don’t need to vent.  Maybe I can let it all go.  I mean, “come on!” not everyone can have the beauty in their life that I have.  I really should be thankful for what I have and pity my colleague no matter how unprofessional she is being.  Maybe I should just feel sorry for the immature cowbag, I mean it’s not her fault that she is so bitter, insecure and jealous is it? (well it is!) It’s not her fault that everyone in her life has left her because she cannot see straight unless she is controlling the actions of everyone around her.   No but really I need to stop this, this kind of behaviour is not good for my karma, I’ll just turn the other cheek, give her love, send out good vibes.  Surely then she will realise the error of her ways?  Oh what’s that?  Oh I’m the one who’s shit at my job!  I’m too young for this job despite the fact that you’re the one who is out of breath after stirring the frigging porridge!  Right Wench, consider this war.  I bet you 2 pairs of disposable gloves that I can wipe this arse, cream it and have his pants up in twice the time you can!  Ready steady pants down!

Care work is a funny thing because it is centred round human emotions and actions, the clients, their relatives and sometimes the carers.  Every time I tell someone what I do, the usual response is “oh so you wipe people’s arses?” and then my standard, embarrassment-saving response is generally, “Erm arse-wipe technician if you don’t mind”, instead of what I should probably say; “Yeah cheers mate for degrading me and my job, in front of all these people in order for you to get a cheap laugh!” 

But to be fair I do, and have wiped a lot of arses, and I can understand people’s fascination with that, but the thing that people don’t realise is that, that’s the easy part!  Avoiding or pacifying potentially awkward, dangerous or volatile situations is actually where the skill comes in.  So the hard part is not wiping the arse, it is defusing the embarrassment of the situation. 

Generally its usually the client’s or their relatives emotions you are trying to deal with, which is why when your colleague decides to throw their emotions into the pile it makes your job twice as difficult.  No in fact it makes it 3 times as difficult because as soon as you stop working well together, the client picks up on it and the pile of emotion is added to three fold. 

Some carers if they have worked with a client a while, they can form a kind of possessiveness towards them.  They take control, they insist on fulfilling certain tasks as if others are not qualified, and take pleasure in private jokes they share with a client.  In a very cringeable way they almost act like jealous girlfriends and it’s left me feeling really awkward at times.  Control is always a presence in care. 

The client has to relinquish their control sometimes willingly, often not, and so the way they keep it is by insisting that their rules are abided by, down to the finest detail; the flannel put back in the right place, the door left ajar at a precise angle, a budgie fed not one seed over.  I kid you not; these are all real examples, and only three of many. 

So on top of this, if you’re unlucky, you’ll have a carer who is also trying to gain some control.  This carer will be desperate to impart her knowledge on you and show you that she has more experience than you.  If she is a trained nurse then you’re really in for it, (as is the woman I’m working with this week).  She will see this as an opportunity to get her ego stroked by her young protégé.  Nah I’m afraid this isn’t my style.

Maybe it doesn’t help my situation that I look younger than I am and that I work in an industry traditionally worked by women reaching their retirement, but I am bloody good at my job and hate the constant patronising.  As far as I can gather my colleague’s issues have come from the fact that I haven’t bowed down to her and that I have been doing a lot of the jobs myself, but in my opinion this is an age thing; I can simply move a hell of a lot quicker than her, leaving her puffing, panting and paddying behind me. 

When it comes down to it, we just don’t work very well together.  Fine.  What is not fine is making sarcastic comments in front of the client, sulking in her room for 4 hours (I hate to get pedantic on her ass but ‘neglecting duty of care’) and actual tantrums.  She’s 60 years old!

But anyway there hasn’t been a tantrum for a few days, and we have had to start working together more.  To give you some background, we are caring for an elderly couple.  He has severe dementia and finds it difficult to walk.  She finds it difficult to walk but is fairly there mentally.  She, let’s call her Maude, (has anyone seen Harold and Maude?  Brilliant film!) well Maude is an example of the type who hates to relinquish control, which I understand but being on the receiving end of the constant nit-picking is difficult.  However these complaints have allowed my colleague and I to form some sort of alliance.  I still have to bite my tongue (so much so that I’m surprised there’s any of it left), and let her insults wash over me; I’m too young for the job; I don’t take anything in; I’m not sensitive to their needs.  I also have to listen to her impart her knowledge on me as if I am a schoolgirl.  However I will sleep soundly tonight because I had one moment of glory.  Referring to the old gentleman I said “Well that will be his Dementia” and she, the trained nurse corrected me saying, “No, no Alzheimer’s.  It’s a very different disease!”  I couldn’t let this one go.  “No it’s not.  Alzheimer’s is a form of Dementia.”  She shook her head.  “Yes it is”, I assured her.  Google it, Nursey!  Score!  I’m up 2 points and 2 pairs of disposable gloves.

[larkinaboot-blog]

The shelter of my single bed!

Back to studentsville for me and rather than it feeling regressive, it feels bloody fantastic. I feel alive and excited. I write to you from little bro's single bedded room, where I will share a bathroom and kitchen with strangers who so far remain allusive. My windows are wide open to allow some air into this stuffy room and although it sounds like im complaining i'm actually loving pretending that its mid-summer in New York and I am in my cramped New York apartment on the threshold of doing something wonderful with my life. The only thing thats throwing off my fantasy is the sound of seagulls all around. The Seagulls are huge and with their black, unfearful eyes I wouldn't be surprised if one or two waltzed through my window and helped themselves to my nuts (the only food source I brought with me). What with the Gulls and the general atmosphere of Bristol, it truly feels like I'm on holiday but that makes me wonder if I'll be able to settle and live here. How do you settle in a holiday location? The thought of permanently living with the sound of seagulls as a norm is a strange thought for this Yorkshire girl.

But anyway I don't have to think beyond the month that I'm here just yet and for now I am so pleased with the choice I made, and just to show myself how much, I'm gonna go get a pint or should that be a cider, my luvver?

Thank you to you guys for your support. Having such amazing friends and family is what makes me feel so strong and capable of anything. God I'm getting so god damn sentimental in my old age. COME SEE ME!!!!!!!

[larkinaboot-blog]

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?

At the moment probably my bunch of Peacock feathers that I bought for £3 at a festival.  Initially I bought them for their beauty and fell in love with them immediately, decorating myself in the plumes of the male Peacock. But later at the busy festival, they became a beacon of light, and as I navigated my friends through the crowds they followed like female peacocks on heat.

[larkinaboot-blog]

"Sell all my things I'm not coming back" Rosie Thomas

Ok just so you know, it was approximately 8 weeks ago that I was offered my old job back in London; same great boss, decent wage, free flat on The Thames, new exciting venue. Too good to be true? Yes. It was approximately 5 weeks ago that this job fell through, after which I might add, I had given my notice on my Harrogate flat and job. Holy Schmoly!

Distraught and lost, I was suddenly surrounded by friends who magically appeared not knowing quite how much they were needed. Necking red wine out of the bottle and being spoon-fed joints I was in no state to make any decision but by the next morning my decision was made. I was leaving Yorkshire/Home anyway.

I decided to move to Bristol, a city I had never been but also never heard a bad word about. My brother, who had his old room in Bristol standing empty for a month, was the only soul I knew.

I sold most of my stuff at a Car Boot (£50 not bad to say it rained), stored the rest at my Dads, and packed a (big) bag, a reading pile and a few shoes (including pink stilettos) in my car and headed off. Explaining to people what the hell my plans were wasn’t easy, particularly because I had no plans at all. My family were surprisingly supportive, and in a rare moment of pure honesty me and my Dad had one of the best conversations of my adult life. He said in the pure blunt style of my Dad “Well I expected you to be settled down and having kids by now”. There was no malice just a conversation between Father and Daughter, however say this to any 31 year old, single woman who wants kids and you’re gonna strike a nerve. That nerve was a flood of tears down the telephone line. Still, a truly wonderful moment that I relished for its honesty and innocence.

I also took this opportunity to remind my Dad that he did produce me with a woman (my magnificent Mum) who is half Irish and a quarter Romany gypsy so what did he expect me to do but roam the land!

But I knew I’d made the right decision. I’d never taken a real risk and had never understood how people could just sell all their things and move to the other side of the world on a whim, that was until I woke up that morning. I knew that learning how to take this risk was actually the real learning curve in this new chapter.

So here I am in Bristol, having a picnic on my scaffolding. Actually that’s not completely honest, I was out on my scaffolding eating some of the most delicious pate I’ve ever tried (Tesco finest smooth Brussels, with natural vanilla for a truly indulgent flavour - never has a truer word been spoken, especially not by Tesco’s!) but the glare from the Bristol sun meant that I couldn’t see my screen to write so I’m back on my single bed, in my tiny little room. I am definitely in Bristol for a month, whether I will stay or go, or where I will go if I do go, is a completely open-ended question but for now I’m getting a lot of kicks out of having a big fat question mark hanging over my head.